


priori incantatem

by writingpenguin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Drama, F/M, One Shot, Romance, Time Travel, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingpenguin/pseuds/writingpenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were in a constant duel with each other. </p>
<p>Their lives were cruel. </p>
<p>Their story was magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	priori incantatem

 

_**lumos** _

* * *

_stupefy_

* * *

 

The first time he sees her, he thinks that she is an absolute wretched bloody mess. He finds her lying in the middle of an empty hallway, hands pressed flat on the cold stone floor as she tries to bring herself into a sitting position. He frowns contemplatively at the sight of her—she is an utter mesh of limp unwashed hair, of smudged cheeks and scratched skin, of wild eyes and torn clothes. He watches her carefully with those observations in mind as she blinks disoriented and confusedly starts to look around. Noting that she hasn't noticed him yet, he steps forward into her line of view, announcing his presence to her.

"Excuse me," he starts softly, so as to not startle her, "are you alright?"

She looks back at him like a frightened deer, her expression petrified and her clear brown doe-like eyes widening in fear.

Recognizing her unease and apprehension, he puts on his most sympathetic expression and offers an assuring smile.

"Hello, I'm Tom. Are you –"

A jet of red light suddenly collides with his hastily erected shield, and his polite Head Boy demeanor immediately disappears as he takes note of the wand steadily and surely aimed at him.

She scrambles clumsily as she tries to stand ('constant vigilance!' she remembers), keeping in mind to continue pointing her wand towards him. Her eyes dart around haphazardly trying to take everything in, eyebrows scrunching in confusion as she recognizes the (untarnished, untainted, unbloodied) walls of what she considers to be her home.

"Will you please explain," he hisses demandingly in a low threatening tone, interrupting her thoughts and snapping back her attention towards him, "the reason for why you decided to attack me?"

She looks at him briefly for a moment, her eyes narrowing in distrust as she watches him loosely grasping his wand.

Tom does nothing more but raise an impatient brow, evenly matching her furious gaze.

And for a moment, they're at a standstill.

"Incarcerous!" she yells, ropes shooting out of her wand.

Tom sneers in response, easily sidestepping the spell.

"Confringo," he murmurs, engaging in the sudden duel. "Deprimo."

He watches her appraisingly as she quickly deflects his first hex and raises a shield against his second.

"Relashio. Igneus. Incido." He does not give her time to recover.

She dodges and blocks, responding in kind. "Stupefy! Petrificus –"

And she realizes her mistake. (stupid-stupid-stupid girl) As she utters her second spell, she accidentally gives him the half-second he needs to retaliate.

"Debilito."

The paralyzing spell hits her on the shoulder as she spins around mid-turn, and freezes her into place as she collapses onto the floor.

Tom calmly strides forward and crouches in front of her, picking up her wand, which she had dropped during her fall. He watches her with an unreadable expression, scrutinizing her (and then she's panicking because he's right in front of her—Lord Voldemort is right in front of her and she doesn't have her wand and she can't defend herself and she's going to die).

He is aware of the amount of noise the duel had caused and he's furious. He quickly looks around to check for any incoming professors, silently casting cleaning and repairing spells, and removing any evidence that indicates that there ever was such a battle.

No one seems to have noticed.

He turns towards her and raises her wand against her as she looks back in helpless fear. Tom doesn't hesitate as he murmurs something she can't quite catch and soft green light starts to emit from the wand.*

 

* * *

_obliviate_

* * *

 

 

"Miss Granger, you are, of course, welcome to the castle. Your unfortunate predicament in… time adventuring is something we can certainly sympathize with," Headmaster Dippet starts hesitantly. "However, please refrain from other untoward spell-casting experiments until Professor Dumbledore finds a way to reverse your situation."

She nods gratefully, wearing a somewhat sheepish smile. "Thank you, Headmaster. I assure you that it was a one-time accident."

Dippet waves his hand dismissively. "Tom will meet you just outside," he adds, informing her of her escort.

"Tom?" She freezes (even with just the mere mention of his name).

Her reaction goes unnoticed by the headmaster as he patronizingly smiles at the girl.

"Tom Riddle, my dear girl," he says proudly. "He is our Head Boy this year, and I'm sure that he'd be more than able to help you get acquainted with the school's students and facilities."

"Headmaster," Hermione quickly intervenes, not wanting to meet a future dark lord. "I'm fairly aware of the school grounds and facilities already, and I'm sure that I can make friends on my own. I don't think I need anyone escorting me around."

Dippet frowns. "Be that as it may, Miss Granger. Tom has already volunteered to do so."

Hermione blinks in bewilderment. He—how? How does he even know about her? How—what does he know—

"He volunteered?"

"Indeed, he did. He was quite concerned after he found you unconscious in the hallway and brought you immediately to the hospital wing."

Hermione recovers from her shock after a brief moment of thought. "What does he know?"

The professor sighs in exasperation, not wanting to waste any more time on the girl's troublesome albeit unique situation.

"Miss Granger, I can assure you that Mr. Riddle is one of the most trustworthy and reliable students in the castle."

"I'm sure of that as well," Hermione affirms, playing along. "However, my sensitive situation—"

"Is already being taken care of, Miss Granger. Furthermore, Professor Dumbledore has already told Mr. Riddle of your tragic experience in Grindelwald's recent attacks."

Hermione's relief is palpable. (He doesn't know. He doesn't know. It's okay. Dumbledore is here. Everything will be fine.) She stops arguing immediately and instead offers a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Headmaster."

Dippet nods in return, signaling his dismissal of her.

 

* * *

_orchideous_

* * *

 

 

She knows that he pretends to be kind to her (although the kindness isn't entirely faked because for some reason, she doesn't know what or why, he seems to be genuinely interested in her and her wellbeing). She can see it in his manipulative gestures and through his calculating smiles. And as she watches how easily he charms the professors and the general student body into thinking that he's the perfect model student—that he's the best of the best—she warily takes a step back. It is that thought exactly that reminds her that she should be focused—that she should ignore that feeling of contentment when she watches him talk or that growing fondness for him when they engage each other in a light-hearted argument.

She should remember who he is and what he does (did—no, will do). Because then, she won't see the intelligent light in his eyes, and she won't see the confident independent man who speaks his mind about political issues, about injustices (about a good number of ideals surprisingly similar to her own), but instead, she'll see the cruel red glint in his eyes and the abusive power-hungry terrorist willing to kill his own followers for the sake of furthering his grasp of influence.

But by then, she's too busy reliving the screams and the whimpers and the dark shadows of a forest that she doesn't notice when he shakes her shoulder, looking down on her in what looks like actual concern (she doubts it is, yet some part of her yearns for it to be).

"Hermione. Hermione!"

She looks up confused and panicked, frantically looking around her until he gently stills her by putting his hands upon her shoulders. She then snaps back to reality and sees the curtains of red and the engravings of gold and promptly reminds herself that she's in the Gryffindor common room and not in the Forest of Dean (not in the Malfoy Mansion, not in the Battle of Hogwarts, not in the—)

"Are you alright?" he asks, a frown marring his face.

She nods her head almost distractedly, still half-buried in her memories.

"Hermione," he repeats softly but firmly, sliding his hands down to her wrists.

She blinks and immediately flinches away from his touch upon recognizing him, pulling away as though as she had been burned.

He watches her curiously with a slight frown on his face as she smiles back at him apologetically.

"Tom," she starts hesitantly. "Sorry about that. What were you saying?"

He decides to let go off the matter almost instantly after a mere moment of thought and instead reassures her with a comforting smile.

"I was merely wondering about whether or not you would want to accompany me down to the kitchens," he says, all with the mannerisms of a polite charming gentleman.

Her eyebrows shot up in an expression of incredulity at the seemingly random suggestion, but she accedes to his request. (Though she knows that the question was a mere formality on his part. She has no doubt that he would have found a way to drag her down to the kitchens—or any other destination of his choice, really—should she have refused.)

Placing a hand on the small of her back, he quickly gestures for her to move. Realizing that the action was seemingly for the sake of courtesy rather than a show of impatience (an infamous characteristic of his), she looks up at him questioningly.

"You're being nice. Why are you being nice?" she asks with a tone of disbelief.

At this point, he gives her an amused smirk and offers her his arm in a manner that's all too chivalrous, leading her out through the portrait door.

 

* * *

_expecto patronum_

* * *

 

 

He sneaks her into the boys' dormitory in the middle of an afternoon on a snowy day, but then again, it isn't really sneaking around anymore—because really, no one stays in Hogwarts for the holidays (but that doesn't matter because it's the thought that counts, and because Hermione, ever so practical Hermione, giggles and laughs and for a moment, indulges herself to pretend that he's Romeo and that she's Juliet because they're being sneaky—they're being risky—and because she's tempted to throw everything away for the sake of something as foolish and stupid as forbidden love).

But then, almost immediately after, that fantasy goes flying out the window as she feels his ring—his horcrux—when he grabs her hand, and reality slaps her in the face and douses her with ice-cold water as she realizes what she's been doing and is still doing. And then he's there, tugging her through the portrait door and shooting her what looks like a genuine smile (and suddenly, she's afraid but not afraid at the same time because she isn't exactly sure what that means) and reaches out to take her scarf off (he loathes the colors of red and gold on her) while she looks around the room that is completely draped in silver and green, shivering not only because of the sudden absence of warmth but also because of what those two colors imply.

"Tom," she begins warily, the initial giddiness that she had been feeling earlier wearing off. "Why exactly are we here?"

The smile he has on then turns into a full-blown smirk, and he quirks a brow upwards in a show of uncharacteristic playfulness. "You tell me, Hermione."

She frowns and ignores the smugness radiating off him—ignores the whole bloody innuendo that he's putting out there—and pretends to study the intricate patterns on the carpeted floor. "It's cold here, Tom."

He chuckles and pulls her to him, letting them both collapse onto the silken sheets of his bed. Hermione yelps and laughs as she lands on the bed, grabbing a nearby pillow and smacking him with it.

"Tell me of the future," he says after a period of silence, after the laughter dies out.

She raises a brow at him incredulously. "You know I can't do that."

"You can't tell me about my future."

"Yes."

"Then tell me of your future."

She blinks, surprised (and not knowing if this were actually born out of the sweet gesture to get to know her better or for the sake of his insatiable curiosity), and looks over at him. He stares at the ceiling, seemingly deep in thought, and when she doesn't answer, glances at her from the corner of his eyes.

"Well?"

She isn't deluding herself, and she knows that it's probably for the sake of the latter rather than the former, but she gives him what he wants this time because she's tired of keeping up with the pretenses of lies and obscure back-stories and especially because he had already given a clear indication that he had more than the barest notion of where she had actually come from.

And so, she gives him a sad hesitant smile and tells him. She tells him of how it all began—the tale of a bushy haired know-it-all girl and her two stupid kind brave boys. She tells him of horrid luck, pink toads and terrible Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, and of hopes and dreams and happy silver Patronus charms. She tells him proudly of her OWLs results – of her ten Os and one E (though she does scowl a bit when muttering the latter), and how she never got to take her NEWTs. She tells him of the little things that don't matter in the long run (but actually do). She tells him of her story—of how she survived, of how she survives.

And for once, perhaps without the ulterior motives, without the calculating glint in the look of his eyes but instead with a simple show of gesture of sincerity, he smiles.

 

* * *

___crucio_ _ _  


* * *

They are in the library doing their own personal research when she decides to make a request of him. She asks the question as nonchalantly as she can while she skims through a book about fluxweed and its stabilizing properties—which she discovers, maintain the magical balance of Polyjuice Potions (not that that really matters at the moment, she thinks, mentally scolding herself while trying to focus on the task at hand).

"Tom?"

The aforementioned boy does not look up from his book (The Study of Dark Artifices, Volume Three), instead opting for a halfhearted hum until several seconds pass in which Hermione does not continue.

Slightly irritated and mildly curious, he raises his gaze to her. "Yes, Hermione?"

"Can we visit your orphanage?"

If Tom were surprised with the question, he showed no indications of being so. Instead, he levels his gaze towards her and utters a concise answer with a tone that left no arguments.

"No."

"Please?" she pleads with him. "I just want to –"

"No."

"But I –"

He throws her a glare. "I do not know how you have knowledge of my muggle upbringing," he starts, his tone clearly showing the amount of disgust he had for his less than pure roots. "But I suggest that you leave it alone."

"Tom –"

"Hermione," he cuts her off warningly.

"Why do you even hate muggles?"

"Muggles," he repeats, looking straight at her, "are savages. They are completely and utterly barbaric. They're wrecking the world apart as we speak."

Hermione winces at the reminder of the worldwide war going on. "That's just the minority. What about those who do not wish to take part in the war? What about the innocent?"

"The innocent are the ignorant. In fact, they are all ignorant. They are all close-minded, ruled by fear of the unknown," he replies with conviction, his jaw clenching in frustration.

Hermione watches him closely. This isn't just about them, is it?

"Tom," she pauses for a moment at the cold look he gives her as it sends chills crawling through her skin and fear pumping through her heart (and she reminds herself that he isn't Lord Voldemort yet – that he will never be him. She will make sure of that.) "What happened to you in the orphanage?"

Tom's expression blanks out immediately, showing no hint of emotion—of the emotional turmoil and distress that she suspects he feels inside.

"That," he pauses, narrowing his eyes at her, "is none of your concern. But I am curious to know, why are you so insistent on defending muggles?"

She decides to stay silent but looks back at him defiantly as he fixes her with a scrutinizing look.

He raises a brow at her silence. "Why so quiet now, Hermione?"

"A muggle-loving pureblood?" he murmurs, drawing closer to her and gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Dumbledore must have deeply ingrained his ideals into you."

She frowns at the gesture, knowing its intent to intimidate her, and shakes her head resolutely, a glint of defiance igniting in her eyes.

He pulls back. "Do you know who's spearheading the war?"

She frowns at the sudden question. "Germany."

He watches her with an unreadable expression on his face. "Who is leading Germany?"

"Adolf Hitler."

"Does Germany win the war?"

"No."

"Who will kill Hitler?"

"…Where are you going with these questions, Tom?"

"Just answer them."

"Why do you think anyone killed Hitler?"

He rolls his eyes. "He is not the type of person to surrender. He will not surrender."

She blinks at the logic and decides to answer. "No one. He kills himself."

Tom hums thoughtfully in response. "I find it curious how an elite pureblood witch as yourself would have profound knowledge in muggle war history that occurs—had occurred—at least fifty years before she was even born."

She stares at him evenly, leveling her own gaze towards him. "I'm a scholar. I'm naturally curious about everything."

He sends her a withering look. We both know the truth here. "You're muggle-born."

"So what?" she snaps at him.

"You're muggle-born," he repeats, emphasizing his tone of distaste.

"Yes." She leans closer, confirming his epiphany, and looks him straight into his eyes. "I am."

And she doesn't quite know what had happened after that. She remembers hearing the loud screech of a chair pushed back. And she remembers the livid betrayed look on his face. She remembers the sudden sensation of fire burning through her veins, of metaphorical knives plunging deep within, scarring—hurting—every inch of her body and how she had screamed her throat raw.

She lays still on her back on the dusty library floor and realizes that for that moment, she's scared. For that moment, she's truly scared of him. She's scared of people finding out about her. She's scared that all her efforts—that this travel back to the past—would all be for naught, and that she would fail. And when she attempts to sit up, but only succeeds in collapsing back to the ground, she realizes that she's also angry. Because the Hermione Granger she once knew wasn't so stupid to think that love was—is—ever the answer. She should have learned that when she lost the war. She should have known because it was never— _never_ —enough.

 

* * *

_imperio_

* * *

 

 

She is a ghost to her own self. She knows this. She feels the cloudiness of her mind. She hears his voice in all its enticement and allure making its way through her murky thoughts (he's inside her head and it's almost comforting – his voice is gentle, full of tenderness and promises).

She sees herself walk towards him with an empty smile on her face.

She doesn't quite remember what happens when he's with her.

Sometimes, she feels the soreness of her throat from hoarse screams she can't recall. (cruciocruciocrucio)

Sometimes, she hears the laughter echoing in the back of her mind. The Knights of Walpurgis mock her—they jeer and kick and watch and-and-and

She maybe sees dark cloaks and dimly lit rooms (dark, it's too dark—)

He smiles at her and beckons her forward—she will, of course. And he starts to ask her questions. What year was she born in? What year was she last in? Was she fighting a war? Why?

She answers honestly, faithfully.

"Were you fighting against Grindelwald?"

"No," she replies softly.

"Then against who?"

"You."

Tom draws his wand out sharply. He jabs her threateningly on the throat and he looks down on her, his eyes wild, his jaw clenched in anger.

"Who sent you back?"

"Harry."

The wand digs deeper against her skin. "Harry?"

"Harry Potter."

He growls. "Tell me about him."

"He is my best friend," she whispers.

Tom impatiently kicks her to the floor. "What else?"

"He—"

She stops. There's another voice in her head. It's screaming nonsense.

She lets out a whimper as another blow hits her in the stomach.

No no no no no. Harry. Never Harry. Never.

Tom jabs his wand at her throat again. "Tell me," he hisses.

She remains frozen. Never Harry. No. Never. No no no no

Tom yells in frustration and grabs her hair, yanking her head up. His wand is pointed directly in front of her face.

"Legilimens."

Flashes and blurs of color and life and feeling flood her mind.

She sees a smiling skinny boy with unkempt hair and mischievous green eyes.

And then there's another one. He has bright red hair and an obsession for food and Quidditch.

Hermione cries as she watches them laugh in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. She watches them heartbroken in their headmaster's funeral.

She watches Ron die. His hands were cold. His face was pale. And she kissed him one last time before they escaped the castle.

She watches Harry who hugged her as she left—when the spells crashed their last sanctuary and her best friend died with hope in his eyes.

And she's the only one now. She's alone. She's alone. She's alone.

But all the memories are still flying past, and she realizes that she isn't.

She isn't.

He's still standing there, watching the future. He's still seeing Harry and Ron. He is still there inside her head. NO NO NO GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT

She's furious and she's sobbing and she screams as she wills him away. Her mental shields fly up and she grabs his wand and she yells and kicks and—

"BOMBARDA!"

—she escapes.

 

* * *

_finite incantatem_

* * *

 

 

She's lost and she doesn't know what to do anymore, and dammit why her? Why her? Because she's tired and why did they leave her to face this alone? Because when she drifts off to the seemingly calm and peacefulness of sleep, she wakes up screaming and thrashing, and the memory of burnt corpses, spilled guts and soulless eyes are forever seared into her mind, and Oh Merlin, Ron, Harry, what am I going to do now?

She cries. She cries and sobs from dusk to dawn, because it hurts. It always hurts and her ghosts will never leave her and she can't chase them away.

But she doesn't need to. Her ghosts smile at her and reach out for her. Ron is kissing her forehead, and Harry—dear Harry—is rubbing her back. Ginny is right behind him, giving her a comforting smile. Luna is holding her hands, gently caressing them while Neville grins and nods at her.

And her parents. Her parents are standing in front of her. And they're proud. Their eyes crinkle with love and joy. They're reaching for her, trying to embrace her. We love you, they say. We are so proud of you.

She sobs and the tears are streaming down her face. She holds her arms up towards them.

They hold on to her.

And they're gone.

When the first ray of sunlight spills through the windows, she stands with hands shaking and her heart breaking. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot, and her robes are rumpled, but she stands with her dreams crushed and her life torn apart. She stands trembling, aching, hurting—she stands strong.

And when she enters the Great Hall for breakfast, she meets his gaze, and she is not breaking or faltering or wavering. She looks right into his eyes, takes note of his cold smirk—of his pretentiousness, his arrogance—and glares right back at him, taking satisfaction at the momentary glimpse of surprise on his face.

Then she draws her wand, and he narrows his eyes before immediately drawing his own. The hall falls into murmurs and screams and chaos, and they move to the center of it. They start the duel together, dancing between spells and curses—between the colors of hexes red and green, between life and death. They start the battle for the future.

They start where they began.

 

* * *

_**nox** _

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> *According to the Harry Potter wiki, the color of the memory charm (obliviate) is a soft green.
> 
> I've also taken the liberty of adding a couple of spells of my own as I think the current list of spells for dueling is rather short.
> 
> _Igneus_ literally means on fire or burning. In this story, the spell severely burns the opponent.
> 
> _Incido_ literally means I fall. In this story, the spell is used to weaken the opponent and/or make the opponent collapse.
> 
> _Debilito_ literally means I cripple/disable. Here, it's used as a paralyzing spell not unlike the petrification one (petrificus totalus).
> 
> All other spells used are official and are found in the wiki.


End file.
